One Perfect Year

by Melinda Curtis

  “How’ve you been?” Gage surprised her by breaking the silence between them. He’d always been a reticent conversationalist, more likely satisfied by simply being part of the group than participating.

  “Fine.” It was what his parents had said when she’d asked about him. Fine? Shelby had wanted to put her arms around Gage to see for herself. She’d had to settle for fine. And so would he.

  A frog sang a baritoned lament across the river.

  “I miss him,” Gage said.

  “Don’t.” Her shoulders deflated as if pressed down, threatening to bend her over. She kept herself upright by pushing her palms onto her knees. “You weren’t around when I needed to talk about Nick, when I needed to share the things that made him special with someone who knew him as well as I did. Where were you?” Her voice made her sound hurt and disappointed. She hated it. She was a professional. She couldn’t break down tonight. “I can’t talk to you as if I just saw you yesterday.”

  But she wanted to. That once young, innocent part of her she’d assumed was long dead and buried—that stumbling, lonely misfit—wanted to.

  She covered her lips with her fingers, but that didn’t stop the lonely misfit from talking. “Gage, marriage to Nick...your friendship...they meant everything to me and for one precious year, I had both. I felt I had what everyone else took for granted.” Dropping her hand, Shelby drew a shaky breath. “Let’s face it. I’m not the same person anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Shelby let Gage’s words drift by with the river.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I can’t tell you how often I started to get in touch. But what would I say?” He clasped her hand.

  It was a very un-Gage-like moment. He wasn’t a touchy-feely sort of person.

  She’d taken her gloves off. The warmth of his skin heated her palm. But his touch sent more than physical warmth. It offered more than belated comfort. The feel of his hand around hers—an intimacy she hadn’t experienced since Nick—sent a prickle of awareness along her spine.

  Awareness? Of Dead Gage?

  “There’s nothing more to say.” She snatched her hand back from his and hopped to her feet. Breaking their connection, reassembling the I-don’t-care expression on her face, she almost tripped over a tree root as she backed away. “Friendships are like seasons. There’s a cycle. A beginning, an end. Ours ran its course.” Friendships cooled. People moved on, except for those who stayed here in Harmony Valley. “Time to get back. We’ve got a long night ahead.”

  She turned away, one hand cold. The other, the one Gage had held, still tingled.

  Awareness of Gage? It was a fluke. A product of her loneliness.

  When they got back to the others, she almost believed it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  GAGE HAD BEEN coldcocked twice in one week. First by Sugar Lips. Then by Shelby.

  It’d been a long, physically demanding night, made longer by the residual reminders of Sugar Lips’s blow, and Shelby’s proclamation that their friendship had run its course. It was exactly what he needed to hear to be able to take the job in Kentucky and get on with his life.

  There would be no “what-if” hypotheses about a future with Shelby, which were foolish, childish ideas to begin with. There would be no arguments about his being disloyal since Shelby was now free—disheartening, to say the least. There would be no 2:00 a.m. sleep-depriving worries about where Shelby was, if she was dating, if she felt as alone as he did.

  Gage parked his truck in his old driveway on Adams Street and zipped up his jacket against the early morning autumn chill. When he’d informed his parents he was volunteering for the harvest, they’d told him not to go by their former house. But how could he not?

  “Helping two kids through college,” his dad had said. His parents lived in Santa Rosa now, both working at a livestock auction instead of their ranch. “We could only afford the taxes on the place. And now it’s not as if anyone’s going to buy it.”

  The once cheerful blue and white house seemed to have given up hope of the Jameros returning. The roof on the ranch home sagged beneath wisps of fog. Someone had been by to cut the weeds where the lawn used to be. Boards from the tree fort that Gage and Nick had built dangled dejectedly from the oak tree in front. The basketball hoop over the garage was rusted, the netting frayed. He thought of his sister, always trying to join in the game. The curtains were drawn. Not only did the house not want to see the desolation outside, it didn’t want anyone to see the similar emptiness on the inside. Down the road, where Nick used to live, was much the same.

  There was nothing left to keep Gage in Harmony Valley. All he needed for closure was to tell Dr. Wentworth, “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Gage walked next door, taking the shortcut through the side yard.

  Doc had the kitchen door open and waved him closer. “Heard you drive up. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  Mushu waddled over to meet Gage, her black curly fur in bad need of a grooming. He knelt down to give her some love, stroking her while doing a brief health inspection. No tumors, no scaly skin, no sensitive spots. Just matted fur.

  The cocker spaniel didn’t follow him inside, despite the tantalizing scent of bacon. “You’ve either been overfeeding Mushu, or she’s got a hyperthyroid issue.”

  “She’s fat.” Dr. Wentworth looked at Gage over the top of his thick glasses. “I’m busy, so I set out a dog feeder. She’s like a hobbit. She eats more meals than she needs to.”

  “It’s not healthy for her.” Gage caught sight of the stacks of books and magazines in Doc’s living room. “What’s all this?”

  “My research. I’d like to discuss it with you.” The old vet dished a plate of scrambled eggs mixed with bite-size chunks of potato, red pepper, cheese and bacon, and handed it to Gage.

  After the night he’d had, the hearty meal was a welcome sight. Gage took a seat at the table. Whereas his abandoned home looked like a candidate for demolition, Doc’s was bright and lived-in. It was on the tip of Gage’s tongue to ask if Shelby knew about the clutter, when she came through the front door, looking haggard.

  “Shoot. I forgot this was here and I’m too tired to go around.” Shelby wended her way carefully through the tall stacks. Her blue eyes were dark-rimmed, betraying her exhaustion. They stayed firmly trained on the path in front of her. “But I’m relieved Grandpa didn’t knock anything over.”

  “Hey!” Doc protested.

  Gage held his breath, prepared to leap up if she misstepped and knocked over anything.

  She didn’t. Instead, her gaze stumbled into his as she entered the kitchen. “You didn’t come in this way, did you?”

  Gage shook his head, grateful that he wasn’t being given the silent treatment, grateful that her effect on him wasn’t as strong as when he’d first seen her last night. “I came in the back.”

  “Which is the door I told you to use, Shelby,” Dr. Wentworth scolded, filling another plate for his granddaughter. “What’s your schedule today, hotshot?”

  “This hotshot is taking a nap, first thing.” Looking just as tired as Gage felt, she sank into a kitchen chair opposite him, accepting the food and glass of milk her grandfather put in front of her with heartfelt thanks. “I’m meeting Christine downtown after lunch. We’re going to choose a site for the temporary wine cellar.”

  “Aren’t wine cellars underground?” Gage had the strongest urge to put an arm around her shoulders and tuck her close. Instead, he made a mental list of the salt-and-pepper shakers on the table—a pair of Mallard ducks, a pair of kissing geese, brown spotted cocker spaniels, bumble bees and Siamese cats. “I didn’t think anything downtown had a big enough basement.”

  “There isn’t. But we have to make do.” Shelby’s response was all business. “The wine cellar was left out of the original wine
ry plans, made before they hired Christine. The grapes we picked will ferment at the winery’s main facility in steel tanks. Then they’ll be put into oak casks, which require climate controlled storage while they age enough for bottling. The sooner we get a wine cellar cobbled together, the better off we are in terms of wine quality.”

  “You plan to use one of the vacant stores downtown?” Gage had overheard some volunteers discussing it while taking a coffee break during the night.

  She nodded.

  Doc turned off the burner and moved the pan to the rear of the stove. “You can shower if you want to, Gage, before we check out the clinic.” He joined them at the table with a loaded plate for himself. “I could wash your clothes while you nap in the guest room.”

  “That’s very domestic of you,” Gage said with a straight face. No offense, but he didn’t want Doc anywhere near his skivvies. It violated the Man Code.

  “Grandpa, you’re embarrassing him.” Shelby grazed Gage with a sideways glance. “And me.”

  “I’m being hospitable.” Doc’s rumble filled every corner of the kitchen. “Gage is here to talk details on reopening my practice.”

  Gage swallowed quickly, nearly choking on his eggs. “About that—”

  “You’re not seriously considering moving back?” Shelby blurted, her gaze intense. “I thought you didn’t want to live here.”

  “Well, I—”

  “The boy needs a job.” Dr. Wentworth shook his fork in Shelby’s direction.

  Shelby shook hers right back. “I’m sure the boy has dreams that don’t involve treating overweight cocker spaniels and aging dachshunds with back problems.”

  The familiar way they argued had Gage hiding a smile.

  “Are you implying the challenges in practicing here aren’t good enough for him?” Doc squinted at Shelby over the top of his eye-glasses.

  “Yes.” She popped a bite of potato in her mouth.

  Dr. Wentworth pounded a fist on the table, rattling shakers. “Why don’t we wait to hear what the boy has to say?”

  They both turned to him expectantly.

  Gage chose a bumblebee from the collection of shakers at the center of the table, and peppered his food, wisely keeping his mouth shut.

  “You see,” Shelby said at the same time her grandfather said, “I told you so.”

  They each stabbed a bite of food.

  Gage couldn’t prolong disappointing Doc any longer. “I have a job. Starting in January, I’m going to be the veterinarian for a group of racing stables in Lexington, Kentucky.”

  They both stared at him with equal parts dismay and pride.

  “So far,” Shelby murmured, while her grandfather muttered, “Dogs, all mighty. I should have called you sooner.”

  Had Nick been alive, the ensuing silence would have been filled with a supportive comment. Instead, Gage found himself stepping in. “Shelby’s right. I wouldn’t be happy here. It’s my dream to work with racehorses.”

  More silence.

  Gaipan appeared at the back door, announcing her presence with the distinctive complaint only a Siamese could give.

  “Two months.” Dr. Wentworth stared at Gage through thick, smudged lenses. “I’ll take you for two months. In that time, we can have the practice up and running again. It’ll look attractive for some other vet to come in. Or maybe you’ll decide to stay.”

  In his mind’s eye, Gage could see himself shaking his head, his neck twisting to and fro. But his view had stuck on Shelby, on her fringe of mussed up hair beneath her cap and the weary set to her shoulders. She wasn’t just tired. She was unhappy.

  I could make her happy.

  As a friend. Only as a friend.

  He should have ended Doc’s hopes. Instead, Gage kept them alive with a nod and a curt, “We’ll see.”

  * * *

  “MAE, HOW ABOUT YOU? When can you work the gift shop? Saturday afternoon is still open.” Agnes had a way of looking at you and smiling that almost made you forget she was putting you on the spot. Almost.

  “I won’t be working at the shop.” Mae Gardner sat in her chair at El Rosal, her full lunch plate lying untouched in front of her.

  The first Saturday of the month used to be the widows meeting. They talked about gossip and meal planning and men.

  Agnes had increased the frequency and changed the focus of their gatherings to opening a gift shop downtown. “How many pot holders can I put you down for, Mae?”

  Mae squished a piece of cold enchilada with her fork. “None.”

  The rest of the room gave a collective gasp. Mae always made quilted pot holders for town fund-raisers, had been for more than five decades. Her refusal was like saying there would be no Christmas this year.

  Mae’s breath hitched. She turned to Rose Cascia. “Did Emma’s wedding dress come in yet?”

  Rose shushed her.

  “Okay, how about Lila?” Agnes shifted her attention elsewhere. “Can we rely on you for a baby quilt or two?”

  Mae swung her gaze around the room. Nineteen other widows were in attendance, eating and head-nodding whenever Agnes reached a head-nod moment. Were they all really interested in opening a boutique?

  A glass clinked in the corner. Rhonda Matson was on her third mimosa. That usually meant her son had cancelled plans to bring her grandkids to visit on Sunday.

  Janine Lee kept tugging down the ends of her blond wig. Was her hair finally growing back?

  Olly Bingmire’s attention kept drifting toward the front door. She gave a mouse-like squeak and stared at Agnes as Thomas Higby came through the door, nearly five-and-a-half feet of single senior man and a hard worker.

  Mae would like to have a word with Thomas. Life was too short to live alone. She’d like to have a word with Janine, maybe congratulate her on beating the Big C. She’d like to tell the waiter to stop bringing Rhonda mimosas. But there was Agnes and this boutique business.

  “The next item on the agenda is a name for our venture.” Agnes tapped her pencil against her palm. “Ladies, we need something unique and creative.”

  “Pretty Things,” Clementine Quedoba said. “I enjoy pretty things.” She had, but the poor dear had hocked many of her pretty things over at Snarky Sam’s pawn shop.

  “Harmony Valley Boutique?” Linda Sue suggested in her kitten-soft voice. She always came across like a fragile flower. You’d think she would have gotten over her husband’s passing five years ago. Instead, Linda Sue had cats. She could be dating a well-preserved retired fireman who rescued cats, but no. She and the cats lived alone.

  “A Stitch in Time,” Meg Galinsky piped up. She still had both her God-given hips and mobility. Why wasn’t she dating someone in the town’s bowling league?

  Mae mashed up her enchilada some more, waiting for the meeting to be over. Maybe then she’d be able to get to the really important things—the emotional status of her friends.

  But Agnes clearly had other plans. She beelined to Mae as soon as she adjourned their meeting. “Are you okay? You look like you’ve lost weight again.”

  “I’m fine.” Liar, liar, polyester pants on fire.

  Shoot. Linda Sue was heading out with Meg and Olly. Janine and Rhonda were gathering their purses.

  Agnes worked that politician smile of hers. She was the sweetest member of the town council. “You know we’d love to have some pot holders to sell in the store.”

  Janine and Rhonda drifted outside with the crowd. Mae wasn’t moving fast enough to catch them. She had so little joy left. Why was this being taken from her, too?

  “Agnes, do you really want to spend the last few years of your life selling pot holders in a store?” Mae didn’t wait for her friend’s answer.

  * * *

  WHAT HAPPENED TO believing Gage was dead to her?


  Dead Gage shouldn’t make her want to smile just by seeing him sitting at her grandfather’s kitchen table.

  Dead Gage shouldn’t tug at her heartstrings when he talked about leaving town.

  Dead Gage shouldn’t open up long shelved feelings, ones that made her feel bad for thinking of him as Dead Gage.

  “Grandpa, I’m going to my meeting.” Shelby kissed the crown of her grandfather’s head. She’d had a nap and a shower and almost felt human.

  Her grandfather was working at the computer desk in his room. He acknowledged her announcement with a soft grunt.

  It was just under a mile to the town square, so Shelby decided to walk. Someone on a motorcycle passed by her and waved as she tried calling her parents. There was no answer. The message she recorded was brief.

  A flock of birds fled a nearby tree. On the property was a house that was boarded up. There were too many boarded up houses in town. People were returning to Harmony Valley, but slowly.

  A block from the town square, Flynn and Slade were building a ramp over the front steps of Mr. Hammacker’s house. Truman, his dog, and the twins ran around the yard playing keep-the-ball-away-from-the-dog. Their laughter was infectious.

  Shelby stopped on the sidewalk and waved at one of the girls. “I would have thought you guys would be catching up on your sleep.”

  “Kind of hard to sleep when your to-do list is as long as your arm and you’ve been drinking coffee all night.” Flynn stood and shook out his shoulders, seemingly grateful for a break.

  Drill in hand, Slade shaded his eyes as he turned toward her. “Off to that wine cellar meeting?”

  “Yep.”

  He gave her a half grin. “Make sure Christine doesn’t offer anyone any money before she talks to me.”

  She laughed politely, but instantly sobered. Like she was going to get between the owner and her boss. The safest course of action was to smile and move on.

  Life hadn’t just taught Shelby a harsh lesson. It had also taught one to Harmony Valley. People leave.